


Only the Moon Howls

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Hale Pack, M/M, Martin Pack, Werewolf!Stiles, alpha!Derek, alpha!lydia, beta!Stiles, human!Lydia, werewolf!Lydia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She never wanted this. She never asked for this. But if there was one thing Lydia Martin was, it was resilient. It was resourceful, it was tempered steel. She survived a vicious attack, and she didn’t have to hide that.</p><p>Lydia gets bitten by the alpha, not Scott.</p><p>“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.” – George Carlin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only the Moon Howls

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this gif](http://niggletsune.tumblr.com/post/113849659761/teen-wolf-au-alpha-lydia-and-beta-stiles) by [nigglestune](http://niggletsune.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> It was supposed to be a drabble, but then it became a chapter and now there's a second one in the works.
> 
> This has been only superficially edited. Feel free to let me know of any mistakes you see.
> 
> **WARNING**: there's a very real possibility that I may completely rework this piece.

“Shit! Fuck—Prada! No! No no no! Come back! Goddammit!”

The grass was cold and wet beneath her bare feet, almost painfully so, as Lydia picked her way to where her dog’s collar jingled. Prada had been too excited, had dashed off too quickly, and by the time Lydia realized something was wrong, he was already half-way through the hole. She grabbed him by his little hips, but his fur was slick with dew and mud, her fingers numb from the chill in the air she was in no way dressed to endure. He slipped from her grasp.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Prada escaped the yard though a hole the landscapers failed to report.

“No no no no no.”

Animal attacks headlined the news; pets missing, then found half-eaten or not at all. Parents clutched their children close before sending them off to school, and waited anxiously for their return. The authorities said it was a mountain lion, maybe two.

Mountain lions were solitary hunters.

Lydia knew better than to go out after dark unless absolutely necessary—a warning and a reminder from her parents before they left town. And it was _absolutely necessary_ when she grabbed her keys and slipped on a pair of flats, because Prada wouldn’t stand a chance against whatever was prowling Beacon Hills. She didn’t even bother with a coat, sliding into the driver’s seat of her car in only her pajamas.

The heat kicked on when she started the engine, and she told herself a small, black-and-white papillon shouldn’t be too hard to find. Beacon Hills was only so large a town. And though she searched alone and at night, she was completely capable. There were no signs of apex predators roaming the city infrastructure. And it was only Beacon Hills. She pulled out of her driveway and roamed the town at fifteen miles an hour.

She thought she saw Prada dash across the Jacobs’ lawn. She thought she saw Prada cross 16th Ave. She thought she saw Prada cut through the bushes. She thought…she thought…

After exhausting every alternative, Lydia parked her car at the edge of the preserve, certain her stupid little dog would, of course, wander off towards glorious nature. It was why they’d had their yard fenced—so Prada wouldn’t run off into the wild blue yonder.

He was stark black-and-white—he should be easy to spot, right? And even if Prada took off to investigate something novel, he always came back. He always came back.

Clad in a pair of sweat pants and one of Jackson’s hoodies, Lydia used her phone’s flashlight as she set out along the well-worn path. She called for her dog: by name, whistling, kissy noises, but he didn’t come. Her voice sounded small in the vast expanse of trees, in the oppressive dark. It was in the silence of her search, in the dread slowly filling her, that she heard the first howl.

There were no wolves in northern California, and it was too deep to be Prada’s howl.

What the hell?

“Prada?”

Lydia hugged herself, resolved to keep looking. Fear hastened her steps, careless of the twigs and brambles cutting at her ankles. But the darkness was too deep and the moonlight too little. Her phone battery drained fast and somehow the path had faded. She didn’t know what she’d do if she didn’t find Prada unharmed.

“What are you doing out here?”

Lydia yelped and spun around, startled. Behind her, Stiles, the Sheriff’s son, stood with a bottle of Jack propped against his hip. And though he smelled of whiskey, his eyes were still sharp, his speech still clear. His smile was easy, as if finding her was a pleasant surprise. And maybe it was. The preserve was unnerving at night.

“Prada got out,” she said, gaze darting around.

“Your dog?”

“No, my designer handbag,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Yes, my dog. I’ve been searching for the last hour at least. What are you doing out here?”

He just gestured to the bottle in his hand, and shrugged indifferently.

She huffed. “Keep it classy, Stilinski.”

Stiles’ smile was tinged with sadness, but he pulled a flashlight from his pocket. “Come on. Let’s go find your dog.”

His help was unlikely and hardly expected, but Lydia couldn’t bring herself to say no. So they walked through the woods in the dark with only the beam of Stiles’ flashlight to guide them. Lydia put her phone away to conserve its battery life and kept close to Stiles; they saved each other from uneven footing, and two people keeping watch was better than one. His hand was warm were he caught her from stumbling, and she eventually held the back of his sweater so his longer strides wouldn’t carry him away from him.

Together, they called Prada, walking for what felt like miles. Lydia had no idea where they were or where they headed, but Stiles walked confidently, and she wondered how many of his nights he spent out in the woods.

But suddenly, Stiles stopped. “Woah, hold up,” he murmured, hand shooting out to halt Lydia. He shouldered himself in front of her, bodily blocking her from going forward. “What is that?”

“What is what?” she asked. She tugged his sweater sleeve.

“That,” he said again. He waved the flashlight beam to indicate a bush only a few yards in front of them.

“It’s a bush?”

At first, it looked like nothing, but adrenaline flooded Lydia’s bloodstream anyway, and her fingertips tingled. Something _growled_ , low and dangerous, from where Stiles’ flashlight shined, and she saw two spots of red peering out from the foliage. Lydia clutched his sleeve tighter. “Stiles…”

“Just back up slowly.” His even voice filtered through the rushing blood in her ears. “Easy…easy…that’s it…” Stiles’ angled himself to shove her aside if necessary, and began nudging her backward. With his other hand, he twirled the bottle of Jack, brandishing it as a weapon.

The growl deepened, punctuated by a sharp, menacing bark. The bushes rustled as the thing moved within it.

“Oh, my God,” Lydia whispered, on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll be okay, okay? Just keep—”

But Stiles didn’t get to repeat his reassurances, because the thing—whatever it was—leapt from where it hid and rushed them. Stiles shoved Lydia out of its path, and swung the bottle, but neither of them was a match for the creature’s speed or strength.

It knocked Stiles to the ground by slamming him with its flank, then pounced on Lydia. Its soulless eyes flashed, and its fangs dripped menacingly, hot breath panting along her jaw and neck. Lydia trembled and tried to steady her breathing.

It was a wolf. A giant, feral wolf.

“Lydia!”

The thing’s heavy weight pinned her to the damp earth, and Stiles scrambled to his feet somewhere to the side. From the corner of her eye, she saw him poised, ready to intervene, but not sure how. Would it kill her if he attacked? Would it kill her, and then move to kill him? If he stayed still, would it leave her alone?

But it didn’t move, even as Stiles shouted to try to get its attention.

Tears streaked her face, and she whimpered. Then it lunged, sank its teeth into her shoulder, and Lydia screamed.

 

###

 

When she came to somewhere between one splash of stinging pain and the next, Lydia blinked to Stiles hovering over her, his face blotchy, his eyes red-rimmed. Her name was a quietly whispered mantra falling from his trembling lips. But as she struggled to ask what happened, he splashed her shoulder again, and it _burned_.

She snatched his wrist.

“Sorry! Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. Lydia—” He grimaced, and she let him go.

“What happened?” she managed.

“You were attacked, and—and I—”

It was then that Lydia noticed Stiles was without his shirt, his bare chest visible through where his jacket was only partially zipped. Her own hoodie was unzipped, her skin exposed to the chilly evening air, and Stiles was pressing something to her sore shoulder. His shirt, she realized. She could smell the metallic scent of her own blood, the salt of his tears, a sour tang that could only have been fear and—

She felt fine outside of the ache in her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she said. She tried to sit up.

“Lydia, please,” Stiles said. With his blood-slick hand, he fumbled for his cell phone. “You’re _bleeding_. Just…lemme call—”

Shaking her head, she pleaded, “Don’t call anyone. Just help me get back to my car, okay? I’m fine, I promise. Stiles, please.”

Through the wetness in his eyes, Stiles studied Lydia for a few long heartbeats before he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded. Lydia forced herself to sit while Stiles held his shirt against her wound. From there, he ducked beneath her uninjured shoulder to bear the bulk of her weight as he helped haul her to her feet.

Stiles helped her, but Lydia felt strong in the set of her legs, their ability to steadily hold her upright. She should have been as shaky as a newborn giraffe. Her mind was clear; though adrenaline crackled like sparks in the back of her mind, it was removed from the immediacy of the moment. She should be in shock. She should be in pain. She knew it, but it wasn’t so.

Only Stiles’ worry convinced her everything had been real, that she hadn’t fallen and hurt herself wandering alone in the woods. His hand trembled where it rested against her hip.

“Lydia…? Please. I don’t want you to drive like this. Let me…let me take you home, okay? My Jeep isn’t far from here.” He sounded _so_ worried and, really, Lydia was fine. She was perfectly fine.

She nodded and offered Stiles a smile, one he weakly returned. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, that’d be good. Bring me back to get my car in the morning?”

“Sure thing,” he said.

Lydia leaned against him as he led her to his Jeep.

The drive to her house was a quiet one, though she swore she could hear the hammering of Stiles’ heart. He kept glancing at her. It was unnerving and a little annoying, but she wouldn’t begrudge him. He was the Sheriff’s son, and he’d agreed not to call an ambulance for her injuries, despite how he probably should have. She could only imagine what would happen to him if anyone discovered his gross negligence in an emergency.

‘Let me drive you home’ quickly became ‘let me patch you up’ once they pulled into Lydia’s empty driveway.

She gave him her best bitch face, mouth pressed into a disapproving line. Any other time, it would have Stiles cowing to her every whim, skittering away to find solace in Scott. This time, he was undeterred.

“Please,” he begged, lip red where he’d been chewing it. “I have to—I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

Lydia sighed. “Fine. There’s a first aid kit under the kitchen sink. I’ll be in the upstairs bathroom.” She promptly got out of the Jeep and walked into the house. Though she left the front door open, she didn’t check if Stiles followed her. When the door shut and the deadbolt clicked, she knew he had.

In the upstairs bathroom, Lydia watched her reflection as she unzipped Jackson’s utterly ruined hoodie and peeled Stiles’ shirt from her shoulder. She tossed both into the tub, then pulled down the strap of her cami to tenderly touch the inflamed skin around a perfect semi-circle of puncture wounds. It hurt. Looking over her shoulder, she found a matching semi-circle. A bite, but the tooth set was too wide and too rounded to be a canine. It almost looked like a shark bite, but she was sure she’d seen a wolf before she passed out.

“Holy shit,” Stiles breathed, and Lydia found him standing in the doorway, pale. He clutched the large plastic first aid box with trembling hands. “Oh, God, Lydia. I should—are you sure you—fuck.”

“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” she said, offering him a wry smile. “I just can’t reach the ones on my shoulder blade, so—”

“I’ve got it,” he said quickly. He set the kit on the marble countertop and guided her to sit on the toilet. “Took a couple of first aid courses,” he said, though it sounded more for his own reassurance than hers. “And Scott, my best friend—”

“I know who Scott is,” Lydia said quietly.

“Ah—uh, you do? Cool. Cool.” His hands continued to shake as he washed and dried them, then slipped on a pair of rubber gloves. He tore open some alcohol wipes and a gauze pad, and spoke as he mopped up the blood and cleaned her wounds. “So his mom is a nurse, and she’s patched us up so many times over the years. I’m a fast learner, a quick study through observation. So you’re in good hands, I promise. A little shaky, it seems, but good.” He laughed nervously as he went through several alcohol pads to thoroughly clean the wound.

She clenched her jaw against the sting, but tried to keep her discomfort from him. She hoped he didn’t notice, but his soft apology said otherwise. Anytime she twitched or hissed, abandoning pretenses, he promised he was almost finished, that she would be okay.

Lydia knew she would be fine, but Stiles’ reassurances helped.

The longer he tended her, the less Stiles’ hands trembled, and the surer he became. He used cotton swabs to gently and individually tend each puncture, then applied another swipe of ointment over the line of them. After securely taping large gauze pads over both halves of her wound, he carefully replaced the strap of her cami before sliding off the gloves with care for contaminants and blood borne pathogens.

He hadn’t been kidding about the first aid classes.

“It’s not as bad as it seemed in the woods,” he said, packing away the medical supplies.

“Probably just seemed worse in the dark,” Lydia agreed, standing. “Adrenaline and such.” She collected the clothes from the tub. “Do you want a shirt? Yours is kinda…” She gestured to the bloody article in her hands, wrapped carefully in Jackson’s hoodie. She intended to throw it away. She wasn’t sure how she’d explain its disappearance to him, or the bite mark on her shoulder for that matter.

“I’m okay,” Stiles said, though his expression darkened at the sight of the ruined clothes. As if to emphasize the point, he zipped up his hoodie and rolled his shoulders. “Here,” he said, taking the clothes from her. “I’ll handle these and put the kit away. Want anything? I could get you a glass of water or maybe some Advil if you have any, or—”

Lydia’s smile was gentle as she grasped Stiles’ bicep and gave it a squeeze. She was tired, and the sooner she assured him she was fine, the sooner she could go to bed. “I’m alright, Stiles, I promise.”

His smile was shaky. “You didn’t see the size of the thing on top of you, okay? It was really—I was scared it really hurt you. And, like, it did, but you’re up and talking and you seem okay and I—” He stopped himself abruptly and took a deep breath. “I’ll be right back.” Then he disappeared from the bathroom, and descended the stairs with heavy steps.

Alone for the time being, Lydia turned back to the mirror and scrutinized Stiles’ treatment. The bandage was secure enough—the tape didn’t pop or crease as she rotated her shoulder, and already the pain was lessening. Maybe the ointment had a numbing agent, or her body was just too exhausted to register much of the ache or sting. It wouldn’t hinder her sleep, at least.

She’d have to plan her outfits accordingly, and somehow hide the bandages from her parents as she changed them. Thankfully, winter was fast approaching.

She’d also have to watch how Jackson touched or manhandled her. She’d have to somehow postpone sleeping with him until she healed. Easier said than done, but the inconvenience of hiding the bite was preferable to the consequences of anyone discovering it. She knew Stiles wouldn’t mention it—if he hadn’t called emergency services, he wouldn’t rat her out.

Stiles rejoined her in the bathroom a few moments later with a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. She smiled gratefully, and his cheeks burned pink.

“It’s late,” she said before taking a dose of Advil with a sip of water. Stiles seemed pleased when she did. “Are you okay to drive home?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he said, and he let her lead him downstairs to the front door. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Lydia sighed.

“Call me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.”

“Just be here at eight so you can take me to get my car, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Call me for anything.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Stiles.”

           

###

 

The next morning, Lydia woke stiff and achy, the cause of which didn’t immediately occur to her. She straightened and stretched. Her blankets pooled around her waist, her hair rustled against the rough gauze, and why her shoulder was so tight came rushing back to her. She held her wounded shoulder and vaulted from her bed, all but stumbling into her vanity in her haste.

When she ripped the bandage off, there was nothing but unbroken skin and stained gauze. She ran trembling fingertips over where she distinctly remembered seeping wounds. What the hell? Through a bit of a stretch, she picked the tape of the bandage on her shoulder blade, ripping it off once she had a sure grip. And just like the other half of the wound, bloodied gauze came away from unblemished skin.

A booming knock on the front door, loud even from upstairs, and startled her from her staring. After righting a few skewed beauty bottles on her vanity, she rushed downstairs. It could only be one of two people: Jackson or Stiles.

She hoped it was Stiles. It had to be Stiles.

She remembered Stiles. Stiles would know what happened.

Relief flooded her when she opened the door.         

“Stiles!”

He smiled sheepishly and waggled his fingers in greeting, a-little-too-large hoodie sliding from one of his shoulders. There were shadows beneath his eyes, a tired glaze to them though he seemed alert in the morning light. “Morning.”

“What happened last night?” she demanded.

His brows furrowed, his expressive face quickly collapsing into confusion, then worry, then fear. “What do you mean what—” His gaze flicked across her face, her disheveled hair, her bare shoulder. And there, his eyes widened. “Your shoulder.”

“Yeah, exactly,” she said. She grabbed him by the front of his hoodie and dragged him inside. Though he was several inches taller than her, and broader despite how gangly he seemed, she hauled him into her house effortlessly. So much so that he stumbled because of it.

Stiles stood in the foyer, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, apparently unable to stop staring at her. But it wasn’t the same way Jackson normally stared when Lydia wore only a cami and a pair of sleep pants. No, Stiles’ stare was absent of his normal fluttering affection and flushing cheeks. His heart thudded steadily in his chest, quick with concern, but not lust.

Which, _what?_

Lydia blinked and shook her head, woozy, and when Stiles jerked to come to her aid, the throb of his pulse ticked up a few notches. It was maddening in its metronome rhythm.

“Lydia?”

“Last night,” she started.

But Stiles was too close. She could _smell_ him, could smell the fact that he’d just collapsed into sheets a few days late for laundry, could smell how he hadn’t quite rinsed off all the soap from his morning shower, could smell the hint of his father’s cologne where they’d brushed in passing. And beneath it all, a scent that was distinctly Stiles, one she couldn’t connect with anything beyond the boy standing worriedly in front of her, a scent potent with the sting of anxiety.

She clamped a hand over her mouth and nose and jerked back, ducking away to escape the unexpected sensory onslaught. She groaned, shook her head again, and held out her free hand to halt Stiles’ attempted approach.

“I can _smell_ you,” she snapped.

His frown was offended, but he raised his arm and took a whiff of himself anyway. “I don’t know how. I totally showered.”

“I know,” Lydia answered. “And that Axe shower gel—Kilo?—is really not right for you.”

Stiles swallowed thickly, a gulp that echoed in the hollow of his throat, and he licked his lips before folding his arms across his chest. How he smelled changed with the movement, and she caught the notes of fabric softener in his hoodie, though this new observation did little to distract from his quickening pulse and deepening anxiety. He positively radiated its sour stench, drumming his fingers against his bicep. “How did you know I use Kilo? I hardly use enough of it to really smell, and my deodorant—”

“Old Spice Swagger,” Lydia interrupted. “It’s much better.”

“Lydia, why the hell are you so fixated on my hygiene right now?”

“I can _smell_ it,” she said again. Her stomach twisted rebelliously, and she tried to swallow the pressure in the back of her throat. As long as she didn’t think about throwing up, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She—“I’m gonna puke,” she moaned.

Stiles helped rush her to the downstairs bathroom. Lydia dropped to her knees, and Stiles left the door open a crack while Lydia heaved.

“Do you need me to hold your hair back?” he asked.

The nausea quickly passed. She flushed the toilet. Lydia was exhausted in the way vomiting always left a person exhausted, but she didn’t feel _sick_. It didn’t feel like a stomach flu or food poisoning or…or anything, really, other than an intolerance to a disgusting concoction of boys’ hygiene products. “I’m okay,” she said, her throat raw. She rinsed her mouth out and washed her hands before exiting the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles started, “I didn’t—”

“Do you always wash with Kilo and wear Swagger?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Yeah, mostly. It’s not, like, a new thing.”

“And I’ve never wanted to throw up from it before.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever even commented on it before,” Stiles remarked.

“I never cared to,” Lydia said. “I could smell it, sure, but I didn’t care. It didn’t affect me. Why the hell is affecting me?”

“Maybe it has to do with last night.”

“What would an animal attack have to do with olfactory sensitivities?”

Stiles shrugged again. “Don’t know. But maybe your body’s just sensitive to stuff now. You know, recovering from the shock of the injury or something. You were not okay last night.”

“But I’m fine now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his frown skeptical. “You’re fine now.”

Lydia sighed and watched the press of Stiles lips as he frowned, the furrow of his brow, the way he pressed the side of his thumb against his teeth to bite the nail. He was worried, and it seeped off of him in waves. Waves that brought smells strong enough to make her stomach knot. There were sour, bitter, stale scents—things that made her think _tired_.

“Are you okay to take me to my car?” she asked.

“Yeah, of course,” he answered. “I’m good. Ready when you are.”

She nodded, then said, “I’m going to get dressed. Then we’ll go, okay?” She went upstairs without waiting for a reply.

The drive was quiet and intense. Stiles reached for the radio twice before giving up on the idea and, instead, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He hardly kept his eyes on the road, and repeatedly glanced to Lydia’s shoulder. “It was, like, a wolf, right?”

“I don’t know what it was.”

“It looked canid.”

“Stiles…”

“Lydia, wounds don’t just heal like that. We didn’t have some weird group hallucination,” he said.

“You were definitely drunk last night, if how much whiskey was in that bottle was any measure, and I was exhausted from searching for Prada. It could have been anything. We could have seen anything.”

“Like a wolf.”

“Wolves haven’t been in northern California for—”

“I know,” Stiles interrupted. “Like, sixty years or something. But it was huge, and I definitely heard it bark before it attacked.”

“Could have been a dog,” Lydia suggested.

“It was too big to be a dog.”

“Dogs can get pretty big,” she argued.

With a shake of his head, Stiles said, “Maybe you should get a rabies shot?”

Lydia harrumphed. “I told you I’m fine,” she said, annoyed.

“But you weren’t.”

“But I am.”

“But you _weren’t_ ,” he insisted. He threw the Jeep into park after pulling up beside her car. He turned in the driver’s seat and met her gaze with a grave sort of intensity. “Lydia, you were _unconscious_. You bled through my shirt. You were _not_ okay.”

“But I am now.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, but _why_?”

She shrugged. Her shoulder didn’t even ache anymore. “Who knows? Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

Lydia sighed and climbed out of the Jeep. He was right, but she wouldn’t admit it to him. Her own miraculous healing was worrisome, strange—it felt like some crazy fever dream. Had she been alone, she might have dismissed everything as such. Instead, she leaned through the open passenger window and said, “Thanks for the ride, Stiles. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He called for her just as she was unlocking her car. “Lydia!”

Turning to him with a raised eyebrow, she asked, “Yes, Stiles?”

“…please be careful.”

She gave him her best unimpressed expression, but when he continued to stare at her imploringly, she rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll be careful.”

Prada came home that night, but he cowered at the sight of her.

 

###

 

Spikes of nausea were easy enough to control with her own perfume, easy enough to ignore when Jackson wrapped his arm around her and his cologne enveloped her like a cloud. She’d always liked how he smelled. But her newly sensitive nose was only one new problem.

Lydia Martin walked down the halls of Beacon Hills High with a strut of ownership and a cool knowledge of the heads she turned. She naturally exuded confidence, so it masked how disconnected she felt, like she was suddenly too big for her skin. It was a foreign feeling, one that left her frowning when she wasn’t consciously smiling. When she rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck, Jackson took the hint and adjusted how his arm draped.

She tried to distract herself by zeroing in on the startlingly sharp nuances of her fellow students. This girl’s necklace detailing, that guy’s styled hair. This guy’s new tattoo, that girl’s jacket.

That girl.

 _That girl_ was new.

Lydia walked up to where the girl stood at her locker wearing her most genuine smile. “That jacket is absolutely killer,” she remarked, leaning against the metal door. “Where’d you get it?”

“My mom was a buyer for a boutique back in San Francisco,” the girl said. Her smile was shy, and her downward flitting gaze and dimpled cheeks were utterly charming. She flipped a wave of her dark, glossy hair back with a flick of her head, then adjusted how she held her bag.

“And you are my new best friend,” Lydia said, smirking.

If the girl was blushing before, her cheeks positively burned when Jackson walked up and possessively wrapped his arm around Lydia. Lydia kissed his cheek before making introductions and inviting the new girl—Allison—to the party she was throwing that weekend.

“Uh, I can’t,” Allison said, polite remorse in her voice. “It’s family night this Friday. Thanks for asking.”

While Jackson tried to convince her otherwise—“You sure? Everyone’s going after the skirmish.”—Lydia followed the line of the blue scarf around Allison’s throat and down her chest. There, she swore she could hear a muffled _thud thud_ , a quadruplet rhythm of a beating heart. It reminded her of the hammering of Stiles’ the previous morning when he smelled sour and sharp and she could only think _anxiety_. Allison’s rhythm faltered in time with her obvious excuses.

Lydia plastered a saccharine smile just in time to interject, “Thanks to a certain team captain,” as Jackson explained lacrosse and his position and its importance to the school.

They didn’t give Allison an opportunity to turn them down before Lydia took her by the hand to lead her out to the lacrosse field.

She ignored how Stiles, down the opposite end of the hall, watched her.

 

###

 

“Lydia!”

She easily side-stepped how he slid down the waxed floor of the hallway. He caught himself on a locker handle, but Lydia remained unimpressed. “Stiles, no, we’re going to be late for class.”

“Lydia, please,” Stiles said. He waved a stack of papers in front of her face urgently. “We have the same class. Just sit next to me.”

Allison nudged her shoulder and Lydia rolled her eyes with a sigh. Allison liked Scott, who happened to be best friends with Stiles. But there was only so much social obligation Lydia could handle in a single day.

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

Taking a breath, Lydia narrowed her eyes. “We really don’t.” She grabbed Allison by the hand and hauled her away.

“What’s going on with you two?” she asked, her voice hushed and teasing.

“Nothing,” Lydia said, short. “Absolutely nothing.”

 

###

 

“Lydia.”

She pressed her lips into a firm line and braced herself for the inevitable. When Stiles plopped himself onto the bleachers, the beam rattled beneath her. When he slid down the length of the beam, his lacrosse gear shrieked, trying to keep up with the movement. “What?” she asked. She had a feeling she already knew.

“We need to talk.”

She took a breath and attempted patience. “About what?”

He had his duffle bag with him, slung over his shoulder and dragged along the length of the bleachers in his approach. Stiles yanked a stack of creased and questionable papers from its depths. He hadn’t bothered to clean out the bag in a while, and even if Lydia couldn’t tell the differences between sweat and grass and the sugar of the soda Stiles had just before practice, she’d be able to tell how disgusting his bag was. “This.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lydia ducked against her scarf where her perfume still clung heavily where she’d applied it that morning. “And what is that?”

“It’s—”

“STILINSKI! GET ON THE FIELD.”

Lydia smiled sweetly when Coach blew his whistle for Stiles’ compliance. “Maybe another time,” she said.

Stiles stared at her, his mouth agape, for a solid five seconds before Coach blew his whistle again. He ducked out from beneath his bag and scrambled down the bleachers, back onto the field before he got penalized or humiliated further.

And if Lydia tilted her head to read the headings of his papers—WEREWOLVES | LYCANTHROPY—well, Stiles didn’t need to know.

 

###

 

“Lydia!” Stiles called. His sneakers squeaked as he sprinted after her. “Lydia! Can we talk? I think we need to talk.” He tried to stop her departure to the parking lot—one of several such attempts that week. “There’s something—” His breath suddenly came out in a startled _woosh_ when Jackson slammed him into the nearest set of lockers.

Lydia turned just in time to see it happen, and it summoned something primal deep within her chest. She knew she couldn’t keep avoiding Stiles—not when she knew what he’d been researching, not when she had her own worries and concerns and observations she didn’t even want to acknowledge. She was going to say yes today. She was going to finally talk with Stiles, and then Jackson…Her jaw tightened, and the click of her heels was ominous as she approached the boys.

“Listen, Stilinski,” Jackson snarled, leaning close. Stiles flinched, eyes clamped shut. “I’ve been really patient with your little crush on my girlfriend, but this? This stalking, this harassment? No more. Just because Allison—”

“Jackson, let him go,” Lydia said, leaving no room for argument.

People were staring.

Scott looked ready to intervene.

Allison’s face was pink, embarrassed.

But Jackson wouldn’t be Jackson if he didn’t argue.

He pulled Stiles back just far enough to slam him into the lockers again, and combination locks clanked against doors. “Lydia, it’s not okay.”

“Lydia, really—” Stiles tried. His voice was just this side of shaky, eyes flicking between Jackson’s anger and Lydia’s irritation.

“It’s fine, Jackson,” she said. While Stiles seemed shaken, he didn’t appear hurt. Around him was a familiar sharp scent, the same smell wafting from him the night in the woods and the morning after. _Anxiety, exhaustion,_ associated and intuited, though she couldn’t fathom how. “Just leave him alone.”

When Jackson pulled Stiles away a second time, Lydia and Scott reacted simultaneously—but Lydia was faster. She snatched her boyfriend, one hand fisted in the collar of his shirt while the other grabbed his shoulder, and threw him across the hallway into the opposite set of lockers. It wrenched him away from Stiles, who slid down the lockers when his knees seemed unable to hold him.

The commotion garnered the stares of everyone within the vicinity, and while Jackson struggled to regain his footing, Lydia stood her ground. Scott helped Stiles to his feet.

“Dude, what the hell?” Scott murmured.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Lydia heard Stiles say. He didn’t sound fine.

“I said to leave him alone, Jackson,” she snarled. “And I meant it.” The words felt hard to form, difficult to even conceptualize. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, useless, like she was drunk. And maybe she was. Jackson’s body left a faint dent in a locker door.

“Lydia…” Stiles placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She whirled around at the touch, growling. She wanted to bite, to scratch. The tangible heat of anger shot through her veins and left her hands clenching and unclenching unsteadily. Her eyes stung, but not like tears—it was something she couldn’t place. Whatever Stiles found painted in her face was enough for him to snatch his hand away as if he’d been burned.

He’d never jerked away from her like that before. Like he was _scared_.

“Lydia,” he said, his voice gentle, but warning. “I need you to calm down, and I need for us to talk, okay?”

She forced a breath into her lungs and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Stiles’ shoulders sagged. “There we go,” he breathed.

Lydia turned to Jackson. “Leave Stiles alone.” The words flowed more easily, and her head felt clearer. “He’s no threat to you, okay? I’ll call you later.” She then grabbed Stiles by the sleeve of his hoodie and dragged him behind her as she left the school.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
